I Was Doing All Right
by Emjay
Summary: He should have known something wasn't right, but he would have plenty opportunity to wonder what was wrong with his small, quiet wife. A dark GT one shot with a dash of GH for good measure.


A/N: I'm not quite sure what sparked this particular fic, except a sudden desire to write as many one shots as humanly possible, all of which have absolutely nothing in common. Besides this one, I have two other one shots planned, as well as a hopefully rather lengthy fic to be written after I finish with Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, which unfortunately will be probably not for a very long time. I don't particularly like Ginny, but something to this effect demanded to be written, and so like the humble slave to my almighty plot bunnies that I am, jumped to it post haste. It is rather short, and a little strange, but I do hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned these characters I wouldn't be writing on fanfiction.net now would I??

I Was Doing All Right

_"Mrs. Potter, how are you feeling today?"_

"Mrs. Potter, how are you feeling today?"

"Mrs. Potter, are you feeling any better than usual? Do you want to talk?"

"Mrs. Potter, are you going to say anything to me? Are you going to tell me anything?"

"I want to help you, Mrs. Potter, but I can't unless you tell me what's wrong."

"All right, we're done in here Andry. Bring her back to her room."

~*~

She sits in their room and stares out the window, apparently lost in thought to the unknowing eye, holding a small pendent carefully in her lap as if cherishing a favorite toy. She strokes the crafted silver piece slowly, her once deft fingers feeling over every surface and sculpted groove, like a lover setting every detail of their partner to memory. It has been touched and caressed so often, it is now tarnished with age and use, but she hardly notices anything is amiss. One might be so bold to say it is the object of all her affections, and would not be far from the truth.

The fading winter sunset slants through the window and sends her long copper hair into a prism of brilliant colours, catching the emerald green of her almond shaped eyes and pale alabaster skin. A dusting of nearly unnoticeable freckles sprinkle her small, slightly upturned nose, a detail that had once made her look forever innocent in the eyes of her peers. Her body, that many said was too thin for her own good, was draped in soft pink velvet robes which lay in elegant, delicate folds around the seat of the chair and pooled lightly on the floor.

She hums softly to herself, a lilting, eerie melody that _He_ used to sing to her.

If asked to sing it for someone else, she wouldn't have recalled what the tune was, but sitting alone in their room, loosing herself in the motions of stroking the pendant, she could hum it perfectly without any hesitation or mistake to be seen. That was one of many mysteries he often wondered about her. Sometimes, off hand, he would ask her what the song was called, for surely such a beautiful melody would have an equally beautiful name, and she would ask of him in return: "What song? You must be hearing things again Harry. That's the third time you've asked me in as many months….."

The first time she said that, he should have known something wasn't right. But, it wouldn't be the first, not by a long run. He would have plenty opportunity to wonder what was wrong with his small, quiet wife.

~*~

She doesn't go out side, not anymore, but certainly not for the reasons one might think. He knows she's a danger to herself sometimes, and as he would soon learn, others as well. It only took one instance where she nearly hexed a man into oblivion when she saw a red, newly bought journal under his arm to convince him it would not be wise to bring her into the company of others again. He'd pulled her aside after the uncomfortable incident and spoke to her softly, though it was quite some time before she would move again, or take any step to exit the small shop. As he'd guided her away and down through the town square, people stared at her and whispered dubiously behind their hands. They gave her unwelcome looks of pity, and some of outright fear. Though he couldn't hear what they were saying, he had a pretty good idea.

He still goes out though, of course. He has to, to buy their food, and purchase thread to mend the robes that were slowly becoming much too large for her sparse frame. He knew it could be easier to simply use a spell and save them both some unnecessary grief, but as far as he could tell, they were easily the only witch and wizard for twenty miles, and the Ministry was likely have an epileptic fit if he were to use magic in the vicinity of so many Muggles.

As he walks, people look his way, then glance hastily away again, hissing like cats to their companions in hushed voices. They wonder where his wife is, the frail, pale little woman with copper hair and vibrant green eyes. They remember her as something different, and wonder what he's done to her, to make her strange, though none are so daring enough as to voice their more bold suspicions. They remember a lovely, youthful young woman, with curves till Tuesday and a sly smile suggestive enough to make even the most dour man blush crimson, who hung of her husband's arm like an affectionate snake, whispering in his ear and turning his cheeks a most fetching shade of pink. The two of them had been the talk( and gossip ) of the town back then, and they still were, but for much different reasons these days.

He still loves her. How could he not, when in many ways she's still the lovely young woman she used to be? He takes care of her like any doting husband, and makes sure she is comfortable and happy( to a certain degree ), and bears her as best he can on the days when she's harder to handle, when she's restless and distracted, when she rants and raves and talks to herself in loud, distressed tones, tugging at her hair and wailing like a woman gone off the deep end. He holds her and hushes her when she's like this, except at the times when she refuses to be coddled and shrieks at him, her eyes wild and spitting fire, fighting his tentative hold and accusing him of tricking her and feeding her honey glazed lies.

It is hard for him during these times, when she won't even look him in the eye without going mad with fear. He wants to keep telling himself that she is just having a bad day, something every woman is entitled to, that it's really nothing to worry over, but then she'll look at him, her green eyes heartbreakingly vacant, and he'll know. He'll just know that she's never going to be all right, not there, not with him. That hurts him the most, knowing that she'd rather be with _Him_. At times he doesn't understand why, but she's hardly in any position to tell him, not in words he'd comprehend anyway.

Sometimes he'll look at her when she's sitting in their room, stroking the little pendant, the one that just appeared in her hands one day, without any rhyme or reason, and he'll just snap. He'll just want to shake her roughly and demand that she stop fooling around and be all right again. And then he realizes what a fool he is to think he can change her. Nothing he's ever done has had any influence on her, and he supposes nothing ever will.

~*~

He could remember the exact moment everything went wrong.

He couldn't have told you the exact time, or the exact day, but he _could_ tell you the exact moment he finally lost his wife.

They sat together at the kitchen table, the small room bathed in early morning light, he: flipping through the latest Daily Prophet and generally ignoring most of the articles, many of which were about him, and she: nursing a small cup of now tepid ginger tea, staring blankly out the sunny window, a small, slightly not-there kind of smile hanging on her once full lips.

He was feeling a little tense. The flick of each page became more and more agitated as the morning progressed, until he ended up nearly ripping one page in half. It was then that he threw down the paper and sat back in his chair, arms folded stiffly across his chest.

He'd learned quick enough that she had at least a few hard days a month, or more around the time of Halloween, for reasons he hadn't figured out yet. In a moment of surprising lucidity many a month previous, he'd drawn up a calendar and been able to reasonably calculate the day the period of distress would begin, and eventually taper off. It had seemed stupid and rather offensive at first, but the calendar had soon become one of his most treasured possessions, and had seen him through some of the more unbearable months.

His own distress that morning was due to the fact that for the first time, the calendar had been wrong.

She'd missed her expected date. It had flown by without him realizing at first, until he'd consulted the calendar and discovered that she was a week late. Then she was a week and a half late.

And now she was two weeks late.

He had a rather nasty suspicion that because she'd missed it, something was building up and was just waiting to be set loose. So far his attempts to be careful with her had succeeded relatively well, but it was like treading on broken glass, painful and nearly impossible to keep up for any substantial amount of time. It eventually occurred to him that he had stopped trying to prevent it, and was now waiting anxiously for the moment to come, building his defenses brick by heavy brick.

The doorbell rung suddenly in the oppressive silence, and he jumped with poorly veiled strain. She reacted as if nothing had happened, raising her china cup and taking a hesitant sip, even though it was painfully obvious the tea was stone cold. 

After a moment to regain his composure, he rose and went to answer, reluctant to leave her by herself, for however short a time. He swung open the door and was met with frigid winter air: there was no one. A brief flash of anger shot through him like a jolt of lightning, then dissolved into mild irritation, and he closed the door again with a loud click. Running a hand through his abominably messy black hair, he stroke back purposefully to the kitchen, all thoughts on returning to his discarded paper and eating his congealing breakfast.

He took one step onto the blue tile floor, and stopped.

She was lying on top of the polished oak table, writhing and moaning, hands fisted in her hair and clawing at her face. Around the table, a scattered mess of broken china littered the tiles, and his paper was strewn in all directions, the moving pictures winking up at him from the floor. Normally, he would have given a resigned sigh and cleaned up the mess, calmed her down as best he could and taken an aspirin, but something about this made him pause.

She didn't sound mad with fear. She didn't sound like she was trying to escape from the inner demons that pursued her. She didn't sound like she was going to die, screaming and sobbing and fighting.

It he didn't know any better, it sounded as if she…..were in the throes of _ecstasy_.

Another breathless moan escaped her, and she arched up away from the wood surface, ghostly thin fingers clawing desperately at her cheeks in a grotesque macabre of a lover's touch.

"Oh, oh please…." she sobbed, twisting and rolling. "Oh please….."

Her little cries pulled him forward, and he moved to touch her, fearing that something really serious had happened this time. As his fingers brushed her arm, she shuddered, but reached out and tugged him closer, her lips parted slightly. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let go, and her grip was like fire on his skin. Her fever bright eyes locked fiercely onto his, pleading him to stay.

"Gin, what's wrong?" he whispered, stroking her lank hair softly.

"Oh please….." she forced out. "Oh please, I _need_ you…."

He paused, watching her carefully. It had been a long time since she'd reached out for him like this, had wanted him so badly and so much. A seed of intense doubt was worming its way through his gut, but nevertheless he leaned over and brushed her lips with his after only a moment's hesitation, hoping to calm her with a soft kiss. Her arms were instantly around him, grabbing frantically at his shoulders and clawing long red weals over his exposed flesh, her sharp nails running deep. He gasped in pain, stilling abruptly in her feverish embrace, but she was unfazed. Her mouth was persistent and hungry against his; she would not take no for an answer. Despite the severe alarm bells ringing inside his head, a slow wave of intense arousal washed over him, and now longing for some gratification of his own kissed her harder, maneuvering himself so he lay on top of her, their sweat slicked bodies flush.

At this she let out another throaty howl, pulling frantically at his shirt and running her thin fingers through his hair. She clung to him like someone tossed out to sea without a lifeboat, struggling to remain on the surface against all the forces pulling them under. He kissed her again, this time along the curve of her jaw and down her exposed neck, her flesh hot as hellfire under his lips. He moved his hand to clumsily undo the buttons on her flimsy blouse, but her own hand whipped up to stop him in a vice-like grip, pulling it down lower, little whimpering noises brushing past her red, swollen lips.

"Oh please…." she sobbed, and he let her guide his hand. "Oh please Tom….."

And it was then that he lost his wife.

He jerked back as if struck, all arousal nothing but a distant memory, falling over the side of the table and landing hard on his stomach, briefly winded. She reacted instantly to his hasty departure, her breathless cries morphing into ones of helpless desperation. They grated on him like a physical blow, and he only just resisted putting hands over his ears to block out the horrible sounds.

"Oh Tom….please Tom……come back….please Tom I _n-need_ you…..!"

He staggered to his feet, turned, and ran. 

~*~

He doesn't like hospitals. He hates them. He _loathes_ them. The smell of death and decay is suffocating to the extreme. It's pervasive, medicinal stink invades your nostrils and makes your stomach turn unpleasantly, causing once comfortably cool skin to be slicked in a sheen of light sweat. The smallest, most minor injury becomes terminal in your head. You can't help but feel the rank hand of death reaching out to your loved one, its skeletal digits draped in gray, moldy flesh and strips of stringy sinew. Its enduring, invasive voice runs rampant around you, whispering your most guarded fears and giving them living colour.

He hates hospitals.

The ones thing he hates more than hospitals, hates _far_ more than hospitals, is where they put her.

It is a prison of the mind, a harsh, sterilized white block of concrete that holds you close with soothing, honey coated promises of treatment and recovery, then slams the door in your face with cruel laughter, and you're forever its prisoner.

The doctors were hopeful at first, painfully hopeful. They told him that it was just past experiences coming to the surface and catching her unawares, unable to battle their strangling hold. They said that with time and treatment, and much counseling and analyzing, that she would get better, though she wouldn't be entirely the woman of her past. Gullible, he believed them, believed their sugary words and smiles with too many teeth, but he couldn't not. He had to believe something, when everything else he'd held close had turned and slapped him in the face. He had to hold onto something, and that something unfortunately became the hope that she would get better, that they'd eventually return to the way things used to be and get on with their lives. 

When she did not progress as promised, they were still hopeful. They asked him if she'd suffered any _very_ seriously traumatizing experiences in her past. He'd said yes, of course she had. The whole bit with _Him_ was enough to drive anyone temporarily insane, or permanently. 

They'd said that was what she was. _Temporarily insane_.

They'd told him it would take a lot of hard work to cure her, and still he believed every word. He saw their bright, hopeful faces, their reassuring smiles—still with too many teeth—and believed with all his heart. What he didn't see of course, was when he left, and their expressions fell, and they muttered to each other, shaking their heads sadly, as if to say: _Poor sod_.

Eventually, after much argument and drawn lots to decide who would break the news, they told him that she couldn't be helped. They told him that a part of her brain had permanently and irreversibly shut down, and that she was incapable of speech or movement of any kind, but that she was perfectly healthy in every other aspect. They suspected that she would live to a ripe old age, then die naturally, or from disease.

He did not believe them. For once he outright refused to soak up their words and call them truth. He raged and shouted and called them liars, spittle flying from his mouth. He made a scene and was eventually taken away by bored looking Aurors, who were no doubt used to things like this happening all the time. He did not go to jail, they couldn't possibly put _him_ in jail, but he was told that if he couldn't control himself, he would not be allowed back to see her. He agreed because he knew that seeing her was the only thing keeping him alive, it was the only thing keeping him sane. 

He didn't believe the doctors anymore, he was convinced that she would get better against all better reason telling him otherwise. The doctors simply stopped telling him that she couldn't be helped, and allowed him to come every week like clockwork and sit in her small, square room, and talk to her as if he expected her to talk back. She just sat on her bed like a grotesque rag doll, hands on her knees, and a small, crooked smile the only expression on her otherwise blank face, her vacant eyes staring at the harsh white wall in front of her.

The doctors became lazy and complacent after a time, and began leaving him alone with her. He did nothing to make them suspect ill intentions of any kind. He did not rage and shout anymore, and thanked them politely after every visit, and so they thought nothing of it. Nothing at all, that is, until they came into the room one muggy afternoon when it was time for him to leave to find them both lying in a pool of their own blood on the linoleum floor, he holding her tightly, with one piece of shattered glass in his clenched fist. The rest of the broken cup lay not far away. 

They were proclaimed dead minutes later, and both were buried side by side in the cemetery by their home. There were many mourners, old friends and acquaintances looking odd and uncomfortable in Muggle clothing, come to bid them a final farewell. Afterwards, when grief had been dealt with and painful memories put aside, the house was cleared and sold, and items were given away according to their short, strictly necessary will. The rest was donated to charity. 

And eventually, they were forgotten.

~*~

A day after the funeral, a continent and ocean away, a pretty, curly brown-haired woman in her early thirties received an owl at her large flat in downtown Cairo bearing the crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Infinitely cheered by thoughts of hearing from an old Professor or the aging Headmaster, she happily opened the letter and scanned the loopy green ink. The joyous grin on her face abruptly faded as she read the letter, then reaching the end, she grew still, though her right hand, the one holding the piece of parchment, began to violently tremble. Suddenly, the silence in her flat was heavy and oppressive. She strained for sounds of the outside world, but could hear nothing over the horrible, horrible ringing in her ears.

She read it again, slower this time, then fell to her knees and wept.

~Fin~

Well, you like? No? Should I chuck away my computer and never think about writing again? Should I be locked away in an asylum and conveniently forgotten? You decide! And please do review, for reviews are my lifeblood. Shiny pink cyber-doughnuts to anyone who figured out who _Him_ was before Ginny's slightly inappropriate cry of ecstasy! 


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